Chapter 18: Slower

The sandwich fell out of the passenger's hand and landed on the dashboard.

Nobody in the gray sedan said a word.

The driver's face went the color of paper.

He looked at the passenger, and the passenger looked at him, and I watched them both do the math.

The Don understood.

The Don had understood the whole time.

"*Signore,*" the driver said, in a small voice. "*Noi non...*"

Cesare lifted one finger.

It was the same finger Tommaso tapped on his folder, and I don't think he knew it.

"*Più lentamente,*" he said.

The driver swallowed.

The window rolled up with a hum.

The engine revved, and the gray sedan pulled away from the curb.

It went so fast that it clipped a neighbor's plastic Virgin and knocked her over.

Gaspare watched the taillights vanish around the corner.

Then he bent over with his good hand on his knee and laughed until he coughed.

"*Il Don ha capito,*" he wheezed. "Boss. You said it like a priest blessing a goat."

"Was it right?"

"It was perfect."

"Was it?"

"No," said Gaspare. "But they ran."

Cesare turned to me.

His hand was still shaking in mine, and his face looked younger than I had ever seen it.

"I practiced that one for two weeks," he said. "In the shower. I only ever said it to the tile."

"When?"

"After the first night I watched you sleep."

He shrugged, embarrassed.

"I thought, if anyone ever threatens her in front of me and I can't answer, I'll walk into the river."

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